I’m experiencing this nearly-overwhelming urge to write “There Must Be Some Kind Of Way Out Of Here” in the daybook which sits upon the front counter at work. I won’t actually do so, of course. But, still, the urge is a nearly-overwhelming one.
Nobody Pouts Going Into A Jiggy
You’re furious. I never taught you to sing. You carry rocks in your head and pitch them. Without warning. Happy drunk. You’re furious. I beg you for sin. I beg your skin. You buy a whore. Don’t give her water. You’re furious.
